44. Now
44
NOW
Brooke knocked on Mhairi’s plum-purple door—the one that contained so many stories, so much life behind it, but one day, very soon, there would be nothing for Brooke on the other side.
Mhairi opened the door in her highlighter-pink-and-red caftan, a cheery facade that didn’t hide the fragile slope of her shoulders or her washed-out complexion.
Brooke immediately stepped in for a hug, clinging to Mhairi. When she pulled back, she tried to keep her expression neutral, her eyes free of tears, to stay strong for Mhairi.
“Come in, dear,” Mhairi said, her face unreadable, and gestured for Brooke to make her way into the sun-soaked kitchen.
The large windows framed the garden out back, the trees in their peak-of-summer laziness, the vines on the trellis reaching for the light. Brooke had spent some of her happiest afternoons at Mhairi’s round wooden table, the top bleached and scratched from use, staring at the blooms bobbing in the breeze outside as her mind turned over new ideas and fresh words.
But the Pyrex dishes covered in silvery aluminum foil lining Mhairi’s countertops seemed to siphon off the creative energy that usually flowed here.
“That’s a lot of shepherd’s pie,” Brooke said.
“Aye, there’s been an awful lot of fussing over me,” Mhairi said in a dry tone. Brooke knew not to press, not to ask how she was. “You’re welcome to take one home. I don’t particularly like stew.”
Mhairi filled and started the kettle and Brooke grabbed two mugs from where they hung under the sage green cabinets like she always did; she’d stopped being a guest here a long time ago.
“I want to hear all about the trail,” Mhairi said as they waited for the water to boil.
She’d known Mhairi wouldn’t want to discuss her hospital stay or what came next, but Brooke didn’t particularly want to talk about the trail, either.
She tried to think of the oversaturated green of the hills and the slope of the peaks, the stories about Cat and Nat, Murray and Oliver and Anya. But the memories that jostled their way to the top were all Jack. Raising his tin campfire mug in a toast in the pink blush of dawn. The fan of his eyelashes. The sparkle of the stars they’d slept beneath. The way he’d pieced her back together only to shatter her once again.
Brooke blew out a breath. “I’m sure you know how hard it is to describe.”
The kettle clicked off and Mhairi poured steaming water into the mugs. “It is otherworldly.”
Brooke took her tea from Mhairi, twisting the white string of the tea bag around her index finger, and sitting stiffly in her usual seat at the worn kitchen table like they had so many times before—poring over printed pages of academic publications, red-lining and arguing and brainstorming. A deep fear drove through Brooke that they wouldn’t be able to do that much longer. That she’d be left without this woman who inspired her, who felt like home and a safe place to land.
Her eyes must’ve misted up enough for Mhairi to notice because she let out a sigh, heavy with regret. “I should’ve told you.”
“I understand why you didn’t. I’m not family,” Brooke said into her tea.
She hadn’t earned that place, hadn’t managed to see to the heart of Mhairi’s impact even though she’d experienced it firsthand.
When Brooke set down her mug, Mhairi folded her hands in her lap. “I didn’t keep this a secret because I couldn’t trust you with it. I didn’t want to be…diminished in your eyes. I wanted you to have the freedom and discovery in the writing without knowing the ending. Without sorrow seeping into the narrative.”
A tear slipped down Brooke’s cheek and she wiped it away. “It’s okay. But, Mhairi, I don’t think I can do this without you.” Her words came out in a rush, all her fears and insecurities pouring out. “I’m not good enough. I think you picked the wrong person. I can’t live up to what you need—to be responsible for your legacy.”
Mhairi reached for her hand. “This memoir is not my legacy, Brooke. You are.”
Brooke’s throat went tight, Mhairi’s form blurring through her tears.
“You will carry on with my teachings and do amazing things and I will live on through your adventures and your stories.”
Her words wrapped Brooke’s heart in bubble wrap, tenderly, carefully; they soothed something deep inside her.
“I asked you to write this with me because you notice details that bring a setting to life and find the most beautiful words to explain deep emotions. But I also saw an opportunity for you. I wanted to give you the push you needed to regain your confidence and reclaim your path. You’re a fantastic writer.” She squeezed Brooke’s hand like she was making sure she had her full attention. “And you’ve been hiding.”
Brooke cast her eyes down to her lap. If Mhairi had said that two weeks ago, she would’ve argued—cited all the amazing projects she’d worked on, the accolades she’d earned.
But if the trail had taught her anything, it was that a list of accomplishments did not add up to a life. Brooke sniffled and nodded.
Mhairi had always pushed Brooke to be better, to reach higher, but she’d never loved her any less when she stumbled. The ache of knowing Mhairi wouldn’t be here to see her achievements and her setbacks was an unrelenting vise around her rib cage—but there was hope pushing back, too. A surety that Brooke would find her way and she’d know Mhairi was proud of her no matter what.
“When you suggested going to Skye… Well, I wanted that for you. I wanted you to experience all the beauty and wonder my homeland holds and for it to open you back up. I want you to live your life, Brooke. To reach all your dreams. I’m sorry we don’t have more time for this one.”
Mhairi’s eyes held a soft gleam, an encouragement. “But when you’re finished with my story…it’s time for you to write yours .”